


Of How You Ended Up Here

by gilligankane



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Crossover, F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another name day passes before a Lannister is brought before Catelyn Stark on the charge of plotting to murder her son Bran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of How You Ended Up Here

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the idea that Cara Mason is a Lannister.

Another name day passes before a Lannister is brought before Catelyn Stark on the charge of plotting to murder her son Bran. Hands bound behind their back, a hooded figure is dragged through the streets of Winterfell by Alyn and Tomard. At Robb’s side, Catelyn sits tall in her chair, resisting the urge to lean forward in anticipation as Theon, per Robb’s orders, cuts lose the cord around Lannister’s neck, pulling the heavy cloth off their head.  
  
Lady Stark manages to swallow her gasp; beside her, Sansa does not.  
  
“But she’s a  _woman_ ,” her eldest daughter hisses, clamping her hands down over her mouth as quickly as the words pass over her lips. Jon Snow is instantly at her side, putting a hand on her arm, his touch willing her silent.  
  
The Lannister woman rises to her feet in front of the court, her mouth twisted up in a terrible sneer. From her collar to the tips of her fingers, she is covered in red leather reminiscent of the garb Joffery paraded around during his visit to Winterfell. Her hair is not Jamie Lannister gold, but holds the same color as the Imp, though, a bit shaggier – cut at an odd angle and tangled from the burlap sack.  
  
“Indentify yourself,” Robb commands after regaining his senses.  
  
The woman raises one eyebrow with practiced ease. “I am Cara Mason. My Lord,” she adds mockingly. “From the great house of the Lion.”  
  
 _Cara Mason_. Catelyn rolls the name around in her mind, mentally scrolling through the histories of the lands until her eyes snap up, narrowing on Cara Mason. While  _Snow_  applies to the bastard children of the North, at Winterfell, and  _Stone_  belongs to the bastards of the Vale, the name  _Mason_  is given to the bastard children on the West, born to the family of the Lions.  
  
A  _bastard_  Lannister sent an assassin to murder her little Bran.  
  
Robb understands it as well. “You are one of the bastard children of Lord Lannister.” Cara Mason bristles but says nothing. “Do you have nothing to say for yourself, filth?”  
  
It is not language her Ned would approve of,  _but_ , Catelyn reminds herself,  _Ned is gone and we are left to deal with the likes of the Lannisters any way we see fit._  
  
Still, Cara Mason remains quiet under Catelyn’s stare, looking back at her, unflinchingly. If it were anyone else, Catelyn would be tempted to commend them on their boldness, but she stares at Cara Mason and feels nothing but contempt for the woman.  
  
“You are being charged with conspiracy to murder Brandon Stark, brother of Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and son of the late, great, Hand of the King, Eddard Stark.” Catelyn hesitates and the words fall from her mouth before she can stop them. “And with the murder of Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the east and the late Hand of the King Robert Baratheon.”  
  
There’s a sharp inhale the echoes through the hall, but Cara Mason does not refute the charge, standing tall in her leathers, with all the calculation of Cersei Lannister and the defiance of Tywin himself. Catelyn had heard stories, folklore, growing up, of a mysterious woman with powers that seduced Tywin Lannister into her bed and left him with a child he had no use for. The twins were already destined to rule his kingdom, but, according to legend, Twyin kept the child and gave her to the Women in Red, up in the corner of the Western Border, where she had been rumored dead or mad with fever. There had been conflicting rumors as well, that the bastard child came back to Casterly Rock and prospered in the Lion’s den with the trueborn children of Lannister. The way this Cara Mason holds herself – the tall, bored stature of Jamie Lannister and the strong shoulders of Cersei – Catelyn would sooner believe that rumor.  
  
Robb, bless him, speaks up, quieting the hall. “Do you understand these charges?”  
  
Cara Mason nods her head slightly, her hair moving slightly the only indication of the motion.  
  
“Then you accept your fate. You shall die by the sword of Ice.”  
  
Catelyn wants to protest. It is too merciful of a death, too common of a death for a woman who murdered Lord Arryn and who sent a killer after her son. She wants to take Ice up herself and run it through Cara Mason again and again until there is nothing left of her but red leathers and even more red staining them.  
  
But while she keeps her mouth shut, Cara Mason steps forward. “I demand a trial by combat.”  
  
The hall erupts again, everyone clamoring over each other to be heard. Catelyn hears the slide of a sword against a hilt and turns to Robb, willing him to stand and take order of his court. She frowns when she sees it is Robb with his sword drawn, its weight pulling him down just noticeably. “You can demand nothing of this court.”  
  
“I demand trial by combat,” Cara Mason repeats loudly.  
  
Theon drops to his knee first. “My Lord,” he addresses Robb. “I beg for the chance of championing your cause.”  
  
Others follow, dropping to one knee around Cara Mason, all pledging their loyalty to Robb Stark of Winterfell, their desire to slay Cara Mason of Casterly Rock.  
  
A cloaked figure, not kneeling, but standing in the corner of the hall, catches Catelyn’s attention. Blinding white robes – not the goldenwhite of Lannister, but a white Catelyn has only dreamed of – wrap the figure in a shroud of disguise. A large hood falls over the face of the figure, head bent at the neck towards the ground. It strides through the kneeling, dirty men of Winterfell and stops at the foot of Robb’s chair, bowing at the waist.  
  
“My Lord,” the figure says, the voice soft and feminine. “If I may…”  
  
“Rise, stranger,” Robb commands. “Tell me your name.”  
  
The hood is pushed back and Catelyn, once again, controls her immediate reaction. While Cara Mason’s hair is stringy and could do with some washing, this strangers hair is long, shiny against the torches that line the walls, luscious in a way that suits her fine white cloak.  
  
“I am Kahlan Amnell, Mother Confessor at the house of Aydindril,” the stranger says.   
  
Catelyn knows the house of Aydindril. They exist in the far, far North, in a palace no man has ever lived to tell about. Legends claim that they have a power unlike any other, hidden in the tips of their fingers – if they touch a man, he is under their spell, at their mercy completely. All women, they live in the highest peak of the Northern Mounts, past the Wall where even Mance Raydar will not go. Catelyn has only heard of the mysterious women and their unnatural powers, but she wasn’t aware they ventured down from their palace, ever. The woman in front of her proves that sentiment wrong.  
  
“My Lord,” the Mother Confessor continues. “I know of the charges on the head of this woman, but I plead for you to release her to me.”  
  
Robb stands, looming over the woman in white. “This woman has trespassed against the House of Stark. We will not release her into your care, for any reason.”  
  
The Mother Confessor stands. “My Lord, this woman is responsible for the deaths of my people. She murdered my nephew and she may have well stuck a knife in my sister, for the way her actions killed her heart.” Casting a disdainful glance at Cara Mason, the Mother Confessor takes a step forward, pleading. “My Lord, she should die at the hand of a Confessor. There is no worse way for a woman, with blood on her hands, to die.”  
  
Cara Mason’s top lip pulls back in a sneer not unlike Cersei Lannister’s. “I demand a trial by combat,” she says again.  
  
“You do not deserve such an honor,” the Mother Confessor hisses, striding across the distance between herself and Cara Mason, pressing her gloved hand against Cara Mason’s throat. “The only death ever suitable for you is at my hand or the hand and horse of the Dothraki.”  
  
“Unhand the prisoner, Mother Confessor,” Robb commands, his voice booming. The woman in white steps back immediately, eyes still flashing with anger. “Theon.” The boy snaps to attention. “Take the prisoner to the dungeons and chain her there. I will sleep on the matter and will make a decision regarding her fate tomorrow.”  
  
Theon kicks at the back of Cara Mason’s knees and the woman in red falls to the ground, her hands still tied behind her back. “Up,” he orders, grabbing at her collar and hoisting her as much as he can. Alyn grabs her other arm, pulling back out of the hall the way they dragged her in. “My Lord,” he says, bowing to Robb before pushing through the throng of people crowding the hall to catch a glimpse of the prisoner.   
  
Catelyn turns her gaze back to the Mother Confessor. The woman is staring in the direction of Cara Mason, teeth bared until she seems to come to her sense, facing Robb once more. “May I inquire if there is an inn I can spend the night at?”  
  
“How long do you plan on staying in Winterfell, Mother Confessor?”  
  
The woman in white bows towards Catelyn. “Until Cara Mason is dead, My Lady,” she says, steel in her voice. “Not a moment less.”  
  
Catelyn nods to Robb and the young Lord of Winterfell steps down off his platform. “We’d be honored if you’d stay with us, Mother Confessor. We have a few rooms you can make use of, you and your men.”  
  
The Mother Confessor smiles in a soft way Catelyn Stark hardly recognizes. It may not be winter yet, but the cold has been settling for some time and the past year has been hard on her family and smiles like that are hard to come by.   
  
“I am traveling alone, but appreciate the offer. I’d like to take one of the rooms, if you can spare it.”  
  
“She can have my room,” Bran offers, leaning forward in his seat anxiously.  
  
Arya jumps up. “No, she can stay in my room.  
  
Cateyln cuts in when it looks like Theon, back from leaving Cara Mason in the pits, is going to offer the Mother Confessor a night in his room. “She will stay in the guest chambers. Arya, take Bran and clean out the sheets that are there. Sansa.” Her eldest daughter snaps to attention, pulling her hand out from under Jon Snow’s touch, her face blank as Catelyn glares at her. “Please lead our guest to the bathing area.”  
  
Her children scurry off in different directions, Arya pushing Bran in a chair with wheels, her whole body straining to push him across the uneven ground as they pass through the doors of the hall. Catelyn breathes a sigh of relief as the hall empties, leaving her alone with Robb.  
  
He is quiet for a long moment before he stands, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’m going to sharpen Ice,” he says gruffly.  
  
Catelyn nods tiredly and takes a moment for herself, in the quiet of an empty room, to breathe.  
  
\---  
  
The sound of metal wakes Cara from her sleep, pulling her back to the reality of being a prisoner. Her back aches from sleeping on the ground and the tips of her toes are cold where a small tear in her shoe, from being dragged, has let the cool breeze of Winterfell in. A pig, taking shelter in her small prison room, makes a noise at her as it trods closer.  
  
“Shoo, pig,” she hisses at it as the metal sound gets louder.  
  
A boy with shaggy, oily hair appears at the gate, peering at her. “Lannister, stand.”  
  
Cara is not used to obeying orders, only giving them. Even as a bastard – a daughter, no less – her father is particularly fond of her. He trained her beside his trueborn children: giving her fighting lessons with Jamie when it became apparent she could not sow like Cersei, sending her to the library with Tyrion when the little boy became too much of a reminder of Lady Lannister, herding her along with Cersei to listen to his lectures on power. She knows the opportunity that she has been afforded and has never taken advantage too much. Since the Lions have risen to power – Robert, that poor bastard, never had a chance to defend himself against Cersei’s wicked charms – she finds it easier to get things done without inflicting violence.  
  
“I said, get up,” the boy growls.   
  
Cara stands slowly, brushing the legs of her leathers clean as she does.  
  
The boy turns, his scowl fading from his face, replaced by a dreamy smile that makes his face look disproportionate. “She’s all yours, Mother Confessor,” he says, bowing graciously to where Cara imagines the woman in white is standing.  
  
Cara rolls her eyes and turns her attention to the gated window at the top of her prison cell. She can just barely see the snowy ground, horse hooves beating dirt into the white. She can hear the distant sound of sword on sword and tiny feet dance in front of her window. It must be the girl – Arya, if she remembers correctly.   
  
“Lannister,” the Mother Confessor says quietly. Her mouth is a thin line, her eyes guarded.  
  
Cara dips her head in a bow. “Mother Confessor. What brings you to my humble dwelling-place?”  
  
Kahlan’s shoulders drop their regal stature and the corners of her mouth twitch skyward. “Cara, do you realize the kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into?”  
  
“Like any of their warriors could stand a chance against me,” Cara says, sneering. Warriors is too loose of a term for the men Robb Stark has at his side. “I will simply defeat whichever fool challenges me and be on my way.”  
  
“You have too much faith in yourself. And not enough in the Starks,” Kahlan answers. She wraps her hands around the bars of the door. “Lady Stark wants your head on a pike at the entrance to the castle.”  
  
Cara smiles crookedly. “Pity. I’d prefer to be on a wall in the throne room.”  
  
“Cara, this is not a joke,” Kahlan whispers harshly.  
  
She moves to the bars, wrapping her hands over Kahlan’s, her gloved fingers tangling with Kahlan’s bare ones. “I do not joke, Kahlan. If I am to be used as decoration, I’d prefer not to be somewhere so cold.”  
  
Kahlan’s frown falters slightly as she chuckles under her breath. “I can’t believe you let yourself be caught. By Stark men, no less.”  
  
“My sister will be displeased, yes.” Cara leans back from the bars, her hands still in Kahlan’s. “But she knows the power of those direwolves. She cannot fault me for surrendering to one. She had one killed herself, at the King’s Palace.”  
  
“She will blame me, no doubt.”  
  
Cara smirks. “She blames you for everything. Most of all, dragging me across the Midlands and Seven Kingdoms in search of Richard’s buried treasures.”  
  
Kahlan sighs. “Cara, I’ve told you a million times-”  
  
“That I made the decision to follow you across the ends of the known Earth and any wrath I face is my own,” Cara finishes. “I know. I did. I would again.”  
  
Kahlan sighs again, but softer this time. It’s more resigned and it makes Cara’s stomach flop the way no swordsman or sibling ever could. She leans in, pressing her head between the bars of the door, tilting the bottom half of her face forward. Kahlan meets her there, her mouth cold from the air of Winterfell. Her tongue is hot against Cara’s lips as she parts them, sliding in and brushing against her own.  
  
“If Lady Stark saw you now,” Cara teases. “She would find a new champion to battle both of us to the death.”  
  
“Cara,” Kahlan starts.  
  
“Speaking of…” Cara pulls back, leaning away from Kahlan. “Killing your nephew? That again? I thought we were past that.”  
  
A flash of grief passes so quickly over Kahlan’s face that Cara isn’t sure she even saw it. “We are,” she says shortly. “But I had to come up with a good enough reason to hate you so much. And the death of a child… Lady Stark will be more than sympathetic.”  
  
“The Dothraki was a nice touch,” Cara says absently, leaning back in. “By my hand or the horse of the Dothraki,” she repeats.  
  
Kahlan smiles. “It sounded convincing.”  
  
“It was…” Cara searches for the right word. “Arousing.”  
  
The sound of someone walking – the  _clang, clang_  of a sword’s hilt against a chestplate – alerts them to the guards. Kahlan presses a kiss to Cara’s bottom lip, immediately thrusting a hand forward, catching Cara in the center of the chest, knocking the wind out of her. “I’ll come for you at dawn,” she hisses as the guard gets closer.  
  
Cara rolls to all fours, wheezing and panting for air. “Mother Confessor…”  
  
Theon presses his face between the bars, like a spectator at the market, peering into cages where the animal inside could hurt him, if not for the bars between them. “Look at the filth, down where she belongs. Bastards like you deserve nothing.”  
  
“I heard,” Cara pants, feeling the air seep back into her lungs. “I heard you were a fatherless ward. That Ned Stark took you out of pity.”  
  
Somehow, Theon’s leg is narrow enough to fit between the bars. The tip of his boot catches Cara in the jaw as he kicks out, anger in his eyes. “You shut your filthy mouth,” he cries. “Just shut it!”  
  
There’s a loud noise, the sound of barrels tumbling, at the end of the corridor, drawing Theon’s attention. He scowls at the intrusion and glares down at Cara as she sits up and wipes the blood from the split in her lip.  
  
“Come, Mother Confessor. I cannot leave you alone with this woman. Lady Stark would have my head on a pike if she knew I allowed it.” He takes her gently by the elbow, as if he’s afraid she’s going to break.  
  
Cara rises to her feet, swaying gently. “I’ll kill you for that, boy,” she says around the swell of her lip. She’s unsure, as Theon’s grip tightens on Kahlan, if she’s talking about the kick or the way he’s staring up at Kahlan through his stringy hair. “You have my word.”  
  
Kahlan looks back at her over her shoulder as they round the corner and Cara’s anger falters.  
  
Only slightly, though. But when Theon comes back, taunting her, she manages to catch him across the cheek, she feels much better.  
  
\---  
  
Kahlan comes at dawn, but she is not alone.  
  
“What is this?” Cara curses, stalking back and forth across her prison. “We are not on a rescue mission, Kahlan. That was not part of the plan.”  
  
Jon Snow stands taller in the doorway of the cell. “Lady Lannister, please. I’m just asking you to get us safely out of the North and-”  
  
“No.” Cara shakes her head. “You,” she says, rounding on Sansa. “You’re betrothed to my nephew. And you wish me to help you run away with this, this… bastard?”  
  
“You are a bastard,” Kahlan says helpfully.  
  
Cara glares at Kahlan. “This bastard is stealing away with the same girl betrothed to my nephew. She is set to the be the King’s wife. Can you imagine if my sister caught wind of this? She would behead him. No, worse. She would keep him alive and torture him every day in front of the girl. You might imagine that living in the North is torture, but it would be a breath of refreshing air from the pain my sister’s hand could inflict.”  
  
Kahlan sighs. “Stop being so dramatic, Cara. You’re starting to sound like Cersei.” She turns to Jon Snow and Sansa. “You have things packed?”  
  
“For days, M’Lady. We are ready to go.  _Now_ ,” Snow says firmly, eyes locked with Cara’s.  
  
Cara rolls her eyes and gives a resigned sigh. Kahlan is going to make her take the two children with them and she’s wasting time trying to argue over it when they could be making their way out of the Winterfell stronghold.  
  
“If we must,” she grumbles, waiting impatiently while the Snow boy opens the gate door. She slips out and dusts off her leathers. “Richard is going to love this. Two lovers on the run.”  
  
“Us, or them?” Kahlan asks smartly, sliding her bare hand into Cara’s gloved one, threading their fingers together and giving a slight tug towards the door. “Richard will be delighted.”  
  
Cara narrows her eyes. “Anything for the Seeker,” she says under her breath, shushing Kahlan, sliding against the walls of the dungeon, looking for guards. The prison looks clear and she’s concerned until Jon Snow leans into her ear and tells her that all of the guards are in the Hall, asking for permission to fight for the Stark honor.  
  
Then they’re passing through the arch, surprisingly undetected, regardless of the fact that Jon Snow walks with the same weight of a man twice his size and Sansa is wearing a cloak of bright colors, a snow-white direwolf nipping at their heels. The courtyard is empty, another direwolf eyeing them from the doors of the Hall and Cara is patting herself on the back for their flawless exit. Her shoulders loosen and the line of her mouth turns up in amusement at Kahlan’s lovestruck eyes trained on Snow and Sansa.  
  
So she’s unprepared for the tiny arms grappling at her neck and up her face, over her eyes. She growls and swings her body to the left and right but the hands won’t give. The weight of another body brings her to her knees. Sharp, little nails dig into her cheeks and scrape against her skin as the weight is lifted and Cara can breathe again.  
  
“Arya!” Snow yells, holding the little girl high above his head.  
  
Cara wipes at her face, her gloved fingers coming back just a little brighter. “I should kill you for that.”  
  
The little girl isn’t sneering at her, though. She’s mostly limp in Jon’s arms, staring hard at Cara. “You’re taking my brother away.”  
  
“He’s coming voluntarily!” she shouts. “ _Against_  my wishes.”  
  
Arya wriggles down out of Jon’s hold, standing protectively in front of her brother. “Then you’ll take me too.”  
  
Cara laughs so loudly that Kahlan’s hand, that found its way to the small of Cara’s back, twitches. “I will not.”  
  
“You will! I’m his favorite and I’m coming with him this time.” Her face is tinted red and her fists are clenched tightly and Cara is mostly amused, even if her cheek stings. “I’ll fight you if I have to,” Arya continues, hand on the hilt of her little sword.  
  
“And what about your mother?”  
  
Arya bares her teeth and makes a low growl not unlike the noise Cara heard from a direwolf earlier. “Jon isn’t leaving without me again.”  
  
Cara sighs heavily and looks back over her shoulder at Kahlan. It’s the wrong decision; Kahlan is smiling at Arya, her eyes alight with amusement and Cara knows, even if she tells the youngest Stark daughter that she can’t come with them, Kahlan will say she can. And Cara will try and fight her, but Kahlan will overrule her. It’s a shame she caves to Kahlan so quickly, though the end results are more than worth it.  
  
When she sighs, Kahlan smiles widely and Jon grins, ruffling Arya’s hair. Sansa, Cara notes with satisfaction, seems jealous over the way Arya is stuck so tightly against Jon’s side. Maybe she has an ally after all.  
  
“But I am not carrying you when you get tired,” Cara warns.  
  
It’s going to be a long way back to Casterly Rock.


End file.
